Chapter 16

Emily's POV

Bobby's apartment was in Oak Ridge Community—a housing project on the outskirts of Riverstone. The complex felt desolate, with low occupancy and neglected landscaping. Most residents appeared to be elderly or families with young children. No security guards, no surveillance cameras.

We knocked repeatedly on Bobby's door. No answer.

"He might be at work," Raymond suggested.

"Or he might have run," I countered.

An elderly woman poked her head out from the neighboring apartment. "Are you looking for the young man?" she asked.

Michael showed his badge. "Ma'am, do you know Bobby Owens?"

She squinted at us. "The apartment owner hardly ever comes back," she offered.

"When was the last time you saw him?" I asked.

"Four days ago," she replied. "He looked sick, not well at all."

The four of us exchanged concerned glances.

"Ma'am, you should step back into your apartment," Michael suggested gently. "We might need to force entry."

After she retreated, Raymond tried the door with his shoulder. It didn't budge.

"Let me," Thomas said, pulling out a lock pick set. Within minutes, he had the door open.

The apartment smell hit me first—stale air with an undertone of something unpleasant. The living room was eerily bare, almost unfurnished except for a few folding chairs.

"This is weird," Raymond muttered, moving carefully through the space. "No TV, no furniture. Who lives like this?"

I noticed something strange in the bathroom—the faucets were wrapped in multiple layers of plastic tape, making them unusable. The kitchen sink had received the same treatment.

"Bedroom," Raymond called from down the hall, his voice unnaturally tight.

We hurried to join him, stopping in the doorway. On the bed lay a man—presumably Bobby. His skin was dry and yellowed, lips pale and cracked. His eye sockets appeared sunken, and his entire body seemed unnaturally still.

I felt my breath catch. "Is he...dead?"

I held my breath as Michael stepped closer to Bobby's motionless body. The room felt eerily still, with only the sound of our breathing disturbing the silence.

Michael reached out and gently touched Bobby's face. "His skin is warm," he said, his voice cutting through the tension. He pressed two fingers against Bobby's neck, leaning closer. "There's a pulse. Weak, but it's there."

Relief washed over me. "He's alive?"

"Barely," Michael replied, immediately taking charge. "Raymond, call an ambulance. Now!"

As Raymond rushed to make the call, Michael continued examining Bobby without moving him.

"Look at this," Michael said, pointing to the floor beside the bed. I moved closer and noticed small white crumbs scattered on the otherwise spotless floor.

"Bread crumbs?" I questioned, kneeling down for a better look.

Michael nodded. "Seems like it." His eyes scanned the room methodically. "The living room is immaculate, not a speck of dust. But there are bread crumbs here. Doesn't add up."

I glanced around the sparse bedroom. "No visible injuries on his body. And I don't see any medication or drugs."

Raymond returned, announcing the ambulance was on its way. "Five minutes at most."

The wait felt eternal. When the paramedics finally arrived, they quickly assessed Bobby's condition while we stood nearby observing.

"Severe dehydration," the lead paramedic declared after checking his vitals. She pointed to Bobby's cracked lips and the dry, flaky skin around his mouth. "How long has he been like this?"

"We just found him," Michael answered. "A neighbor saw him four days ago, said he didn't look in good condition."

The paramedic shook her head. "He's severely dehydrated. Needs immediate IV fluids."

As they prepared to move Bobby onto a stretcher, Raymond voiced what we were all thinking: "How does a free man get this thirsty? There's running water in this building, right?"

"The faucets were taped shut," I reminded him. "Maybe he was... fasting?"

The medical team worked efficiently, securing Bobby to the stretcher. As they maneuvered through the narrow doorway, Bobby's hand caught against the door frame, causing a small cut on his hand.

"Shit," the paramedic muttered, immediately applying pressure. "He's bleeding a lot for such a small cut."

"Is that normal?" Michael asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

The paramedic shook her head. "Could indicate a clotting disorder. We'll check at the hospital." She turned to her colleague. "Let's move. This guy needs fluids yesterday."

As they carried Bobby out, Michael pulled me aside. "Something doesn't make sense. If he was fasting, why are there bread crumbs by his bed?"

"And if he has access to bread, why wouldn't he drink water?" I added.

Thomas, who had been quietly observing until now, spoke up. "What if he couldn't drink? What if the very thought of water terrified him?"

"Hydrophobia?" I suggested.

Thomas nodded. "He'd rather die of thirst than drink a drop of water."

Raymond's eyes widened. "Another phobia? Is this our fourth victim?"

Before we could discuss further, the paramedics had loaded Bobby into the ambulance. Michael instructed Daniel to accompany them to the hospital and report back on Bobby's condition.

Once the ambulance pulled away, Michael turned to us. "Let's comb through this place. I want to know exactly what happened here."

I watched the ambulance disappear around the corner, my mind racing. "I'm not sure Bobby fits the pattern of our previous victims."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

"Judging by how clean the room is, he likely has OCD, or obsessive-compulsive disorder."

"But hydrophobia and OCD typically don't co-exist," I continued. "They're contradictory conditions. OCD usually involves excessive washing."

"Maybe the killer is changing tactics," Michael suggested. "Instead of targeting people with existing phobias, they're creating them."

I shook my head. "There's something different about Bobby. It doesn't feel the same."

"What?" Michael asked.

"The VR headsets were effective with the previous victims because they created visual stimuli," I explained. "But hydrophobia is primarily about tactile sensation—the feeling of water. VR can't replicate that."

Raymond questioned. "So what are you saying? This isn't connected?"

"I'm saying the previous victims were exposed to their fears. They faced what terrified them. But Bobby seems to have been avoiding water entirely, if he has hydrophobia, it's a completely different behavioral pattern."

Michael nodded slowly. "Let's continue the search. We need more information."

We split up to examine different areas of the apartment. Thomas checked the building's security footage on his tablet.

"Got something," he called after a few minutes. "Bobby left the apartment on November 16th in the morning. He returned the next day and hasn't left since."

"November 16th," Michael repeated. "That's the day Brian was killed."

The coincidence wasn't lost on any of us.